Prologue
Spring 1698
The sun was setting over the firth, and the alcohol was creating a pleasant haze, dulling the pain that filled his mind and his heart. Marcus MacLean let his gaze drift over the landscape, looking for the lone figure he was sure would be there. Somewhere.
In the back of his mind, he knew the strong whiskey he’d taken from his father’s former office wasn’t a good solution. Cathal MacLean had at least taught him that much.
Marcus lifted his glass again and swallowed a large mouthful, trying to concentrate on the burn of the drink and nothing else. He didn’t want to think of the things that had happened over the past months.
Cathal was dead, and his elder brother Darren had been forced to do the deed, only to collapse from his wounds less than a candle-mark later. His older brother would carry several new scars to remind them both of what had happened. As if either of them needed the reminder.
Marcus thought he could live with the death of his father. Cathal MacLean had been a distant and stern father for most of his life, but heavy drinking and bitter anger had turned him into a monster and even Darren had feared his father’s temper when the elder MacLean drank.
What hurt was the scorn his brother faced from other lairds for his actions to defend their mother and younger brother Keegan. And what made the wound even worse was that it had all been for naught. Darren might have kept his father from killing their mother and their youngest brother in a drunken rage, but not before Cathal managed to inflict terrible wounds on his wife.
Wounds that Lady MacLean had died of not long after her eldest son had collapsed after fighting bravely to try and save her life. And their youngest brother Keegan… he had never known how hard Darren fought to protect him, and Darren had refused to allow anyone to tell him. Now the youngest MacLean son was gone, and there was no indication that he’d ever return. All his possessions had been taken from his rooms, save for anything with the MacLean tartan, and the steward had reported that a boy fitting Keegan’s description had worked for passage across the Firth of Lorne.
In the span of less than a seven-night, Marcus and Darren had lost brother, mother, and father. Darren carried the guilt of kin-killing and Marcus the guilt and grief of being unable to help his brother shoulder the consequences or prevent Keegan from fleeing the clan.
Marcus finally spotted the familiar, slender figure he’d been looking for, and a small smile crossed his face. It was bitter and tight, but it was still the first smile he’d managed to produce in over a month.
Erin MacDougall. She’d been one of his first playmates, outside of his siblings and the servants’ children, and they’d been close as kin until he was in his teens. But then Cathal had started drinking, and after that, their clans, and their lives, had grown apart.
He’d only seen her a few times over the past few years, mostly in passing, or in short meetings between their clans. Her father Kaelin was a good man, good enough to take his family and his clan out of harm’s way when he’d seen the man Cathal was becoming.
He was also too cautious a laird and a father to trust Darren to honor the old alliance between their clans. His unhinged violence had damaged the clan’s standing with the neighboring clans, and for all that Kaelin MacDougall had known Darren since the young Laird MacLean was in nappies, he’d been slow to trust the man who’d slain his own father, no matter how justified the action was.
Tonight marked the second time the two clans had gathered since Darren had taken over Clan MacLean, and things were still strained between them. That was one reason Marcus had left the Great Hall, and sought his drink and his entertainment elsewhere.
The other reason stood before him on the shore of the firth, staring out over the water.
Erin MacDougall.
They’d grown up together, and he could still remember the first day he’d looked at her and seen a girl with the potential to be a beautiful woman, rather than just another playmate. Then she’d been a reed-slender lass with raven-colored hair, pale, almost luminous skin, and eyes the color of sea and sky on a summer day. She still had all those traits, but now she’d grown till her height nearly matched his, which was quite out of the ordinary. The natural beauty of the child had been enhanced by the gentle curves of womanhood.
She might still dress more like a lad than a lass, but there was no question that Erin MacDougall was every inch a beautiful woman. The sight of her, illuminated by moonlight, still made his loins and his heart ache as fiercely as it had all those years ago.
Marcus finished his drink and set the cup to one side. The last time he’d seen Erin, before his father’s death, she’d still been far too young for him to even look at her for too long. But now, neither of them were children, and he could look as much as he liked.
If he was lucky, he might be able to do more than look. He had no interest in anything more than a drink, some flirting, and a bit of bedsport, but there was no harm in that. They were both adults, and it wasn’t as if a bit of fun under the moonlight or his sheets would do them any harm. He didn’t have to ruin her for them to enjoy some pleasure.
His parents had taught him that marriage was a trap – one he was determined to avoid for the rest of his life – but that didn’t mean he had to be celibate. And why not enjoy some time with Erin?
He strode up to her, coughing to alert her to his presence. “Hello Erin. ‘Tis a lovely night.”
“I imagine yer thinking so, with all whiskey ye’ve apparently downed taenight. Ye’d probably think the bottom o’ a midden heap is fine tae look at.” There was a definite bite in her voice.
Marcus smirked. “Mayhap, if I had the right company there. Though if I did, I’d be more likely tae be seeking me bed, nae a midden heap.”
“Yer breath stinks o’ drink, Marcus, and yer manners are nae better.”
He was tempted to try to kiss her, but it was clear from the look on her face that she’d not welcome the attempt. He cast about for something else to say. Then he recalled one of the reasons marriage was on his mind. “I heard yer sister Rowan’s getting married tae Daemon MacMillan.”
“Aye. She is. They’re fair fond of each other, and ‘tis a good match. Doesnae help tae have the clan as allies either.”
Marcus nodded. Daemon was a good friend of Darren’s and had been one of the first to extend a hand to Clan MacLean in friendship after Darren had taken over the lairdship. “I suppose ye’ll be the next tae be getting married then? Dae ye or yer father have an eye on a lucky suitor?”
“I’m nae fer getting married.” Erin’s answer was curt, surprising him with the vehemence in her tone. “I’ve been training tae be a warrior, and it doesnae leave any time fer courting. And I’m nae interested in that sort o’ thing in any case. I’d rather have a sword in me hand than a bouquet o’ flowers.”
“There’s other things tae be holding, like a sewing needle or a book or even a game piece o’ some sort. ‘Tis what yer sisters dae in the parlor.” He studied her for a moment. “And I’m fair surprised yer nae with them, especially if yer sister’s soon tae be living in MacMillan lands.”
“I needed a moment o’ fresh air. ‘Tis too closed inside, and I’m nae used tae such company.” He was about to make a comment, when he saw a faint blush rise in her cheeks and the slightly flustered expression that replaced the stern look she’d been wearing. He followed her gaze.
There were two men walking along the paths between the Keep and the shoreline. The light from the moon and the faint torchlight from the keep walls made it easy to see their faces. Darren, and his current advisor. They were talking, intent expressions on their faces. Neither man gave any sign that they’d seen Marcus and Erin.
Marcus glanced between Erin and Darren as his drink-muddled mind connected her expression with the sight of his brother. “Yer interested in me brother!” He chuckled. “All yer talk o’ nae wanting tae take time tae court or a man, but ye’ve yer eye set on one!”
“I dinnae!” She glared at him. “’Tis naething o’ the sort.”
“Is it nae? Tell me, is it his sword yer thinking o’ crossing, or his rod?” He smirked at her.
He wasn’t prepared for Erin to lunge at him. Before he could get his wits about him, she had his sword hand pinned, and her foot hammered into his ankle. Marcus fell, and Erin dropped to a knee with him. The next second, he was flat on his back, pinned in place, with the dull back of a blade pressed against his neck.
Erin bent close; her voice harsh in his ear. “Dinnae press me, Marcus MacLean. I dinnae care if ye’re a stone or more heavier than me, or better trained. Right now, I can have yer head with a flick o’ me wrist, and ye best be believing that’s nae going tae change any time soon, especially given how ye’re acting.”
She lifted the blade and he coughed. “It wasnae as if I was expecting ye tae attack me.”
“Doesnae matter. A warrior shouldnae ever be so drunk that someone can get the drop on him. Or so witless that ye’re defenseless as well.”
She released him, and stepped back. Marcus sat up, glowering at her. She watched him and scoffed. “I ken ye were trying tae entice me tae a bit o’ bedsport, but ye need nae bother, now or ever again. I’ll nae ever be with a man who cannae fight me on equal footing, and best me fairly.”
Marcus snorted and rubbed his aching wrist. “Nae need tae worry about that. I’ve nae interest in an uptight, straight-lace wench who cannae handle a bit o’ light teasing.”
“As if ye could handle a wench o’ any kind, as ye are right now.” She stepped back, a sneer on her face. “A word tae ye, Marcus MacLean. Keep going as ye are taenight, and ye’ll wind up like yer father, a vicious drunk who hurts everyone around him until he meets his fate at the end o’ someone’s sword.”
She turned and strode away before he could find a suitable response. Marcus watched her disappear through the gates of the keep, then flopped back to lie on the ground and look at the stars.
Erin was wrong. He was never going to end up like his father. He was never going to let himself become an uncontrolled drunk, or violent. He’d have Darren clap him in irons in the dungeon or send him over the firth before he did that.
I’ll nae be a bastard like me father and I’ll nae marry.And I’ll nae have aught more tae dae with Erin MacDougall, nae if I can help it.